


Black and White

by Hay_Bails



Category: Black Books, Death Note
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, American Sign Language, Character Death, Crossover, Eventual LxNear, Gay Male Character, Gen, Healing, L is grown up, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Mute L, Muteness, Near is grown up, Post-Canon, Post-Kira, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-06-02 04:18:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6550507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hay_Bails/pseuds/Hay_Bails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Kira case, Bernard Black takes in Ryuuzaki - injured, traumatized, but very much alive. They think all is well... until one day years later, Nate River decides to pay their bookshop a visit. </p>
<p>(Knowing Black Books is a plus, but not necessary. This is ultimately a Death Note story.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            It happened on a Tuesday.

            The dusty old chalkboard at the front of the shop displayed yesterday’s message in handwriting that suggested forced carelessness: “NO ANECDOTAGE.” The g and e were crushed against the right-hand edge where Bernard had run out of room.

            Bernard himself was predictably hungover. I didn’t mind. He’d come downstairs when he was ready. I opened the shop by myself, surreptitiously hiding the sorry “clopened” sign that hung in the door’s window. Bernard would find it later and hang it back up, but I didn’t mind that either. Life in the bookstore was predictable.

            I ran my fingers along the dusty spines that graced the shelf by the door, choosing a book at random and picking it up. Conan Doyle. Of course. I smirked, taking in a long breath. My gaze lingered on the worn leather cover for some time as my mind lost itself in the past. Which is why, I suppose, I never heard the door open.

            “L?” a voice asked softly from the doorway.

            I dropped the book. My immediate instinct was to back away, to _run._ I settled for wrapping my arms around my torso. _Why now,_ I thought, _after all this time?_

            I looked up slowly, dreading who I might see. But I needn’t have worried.

            He was taller, certainly – even taller than me. His hair was still a ridiculous shock of white against his chalky skin, gunpowder grey eyes punctuating his face. _Near._ I let out a long sigh, heart still pounding. Still, I kept my eyes carefully trained on the younger man.

            “L,” he said again, every centimeter of his features betraying surprise. He hadn’t known I was here, then. Interesting. I watched his face as it morphed from shock, to sadness, to hope. “You’re dead,” he said quietly.

            _And you’re me,_ I thought, but made no move to express the sentiment.

            He stared expectantly at me. “Say something,” he said after an intensely uncomfortable moment. “L!” Now anger graced his eyes. His face was like a painting.

            I hunched my shoulders a little more before slowly lifting a hand to my throat. I placed one finger at the juncture between my chin and my neck, lifting my head so Near could see.

            He swallowed heavily. I knew it wasn’t a pretty sight. The scar ran in a jagged line from one side of my jawbone to the other. There are some beautiful scars in the world. This was not one of them.

            “Is that from…” he trailed off, clearing his throat. “Did Kira do that to you?”

            I nodded simply, tucking my chin back down where it belonged. No one deserved to see that gruesome _memento mori._

“But you’re alive…” he breathed. Hesitantly, he took a step toward me. He lifted a hand slowly. “Can I touch you?” he asked, ever so quietly.

            I tensed. He saw it. He lowered his hand in a silent apology, eyes still aching. I carefully placed my hand into his. _I have trouble with this now,_ I tried to tell him. _But I missed you._ _It’s okay._

            He brought his hand back up with the encouragement, ghosting his fingers across the side of my neck.

            “L,” he breathed. Then all at once I was trapped in between his arms and his chest, and oh god it was so constricting, I couldn’t see anything, I couldn’t _breathe –_ and he let me go. I scampered backward, shaking, until my back was pressed against the unforgiving corner of the wooden shelf behind me.

            “I’m sorry,” he whispered, looking scared himself. “I got ahead of myself. I’m sorry.”

            I tried catching my breath. _‘All right,’_ I said, in sign language, repeatedly bringing one hand down onto the other. ‘ _It’s all right.’_ This was Near, I told myself. I was safe.

            He moved back toward the doorway, giving me some space. “American sign language?” he asked in a tone that was far from conversational – but at least he was trying. I nodded.

            _‘Used more often,’_ I signed, hands still shaking slightly. The syntax was wrong, but he didn’t seem to mind. It was often easier and faster to sign out of order – and I was still learning.

            It was easier to talk about American sign language than to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

            He scrutinized my hands, and I repeated the phrase, knowing he’d understand if he saw it a few times. He nodded. “That makes sense,” he agreed. He slowly bent down and picked up Sherlock Holmes from where I had dropped it earlier. A few of the pages were bent. He straightened up again, holding it out in offering.

            “At least you caught your Moriarty,” he said with the smallest of smiles. The corners of my mouth twitched in response. I wondered if I remembered how to smile. I grasped the edge of the book but did not take it from him, using the moment to continue to search his eyes. I could tell he had hundreds of questions. So did I.

            A loud, gruff voice suddenly rang out from the back of the store. “Well, are you going to invite him in for tea or not?”

            I jumped again. Near’s eyes flicked to the raggedy bookstore owner who had evidently been watching our exchange for some time. I set the book down sideways on the shelf, freeing up my right hand to spell ‘ _B-E-R-N-A-R-D.’_

            “Bernard?” the albino murmured to me.

            “Come on,” the hungover man insisted impatiently. “Ryuuzaki can explain what’s going on. And I need tea anyway.” He disappeared through the black curtain into the kitchen.

            Near looked at me. I shrugged weakly.

            “Tea sounds nice,” he said. I nodded.

            He cleared his throat once, then wrapped his arms around me again much more slowly. It felt… soft. I patted his back awkwardly with one hand. Near and I had never been much good at hugs.

            When I pulled away a second later, I took his hand into mine. I found the ‘clopened’ sign where I had hidden it, and replaced it on the door. Then, with nervous trepidation, I led a man I had not seen in eight years into the kitchen of my home.


	2. Chapter 2

            “How did you end up back here? In England?” Near’s eyes flicked between me and Bernard, who sat hunched over the small kitchen table nursing a mug of tea. Near’s own mug lay untouched. I set the milk in front of them and retreated two steps backward.

            _‘W-A-M-M-Y-S house,’_ I signed. _‘Help I want.’_ Near’s brow furrowed in confusion. _‘I want to help,’_ I tried again.

            “You wanted to help the orphanage?” Near guessed.

I nodded. His eyes hardened.

            “But you’re _dead,_ L,” he argued. “We didn’t hear from you for years. You aren’t helping anyone.” I shifted my weight to my left foot. Near was no longer a child, though I suspected he had never really been one to begin with.

            “What he means,” Bernard spoke up in my defense, “is that he’s been living here, working and donating his money to the orphanage anonymously.”

            “Is that true?” Near asked after a long pause.

            I nodded again. _‘All I have.’_

            He sighed. “Why didn’t you contact us?”

            I didn’t answer.

            “Fine,” the albino said. “Fine, I’m sure you have your reasons. And you and Bernard?”

            _‘Cousin._ ’

            “I see.” He looked Bernard up and down, as if truly noticing him for the first time. His eyes flicked back to me. “Christ L, what happened to you?”

            I was struggling. It wasn’t that I didn’t know the words – I knew them. When I first moved into the bookshop, I had been more than fluent. It was the meaning that was difficult. How did you tell someone that you were raped? That you were tortured? I looked to Bernard.

            “He came to me exhibiting symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder shortly after the Kira case,” the raggedy bookstore owner explained. I breathed gratefully. “I was searching for an assistant at the time, and decided to take him on.”

            Bernard’s eyes hardened, the way they did whenever he thought about the old assistant, Manny. I offered him a biscuit. He shook his head, sipping at his tea. An uncomfortable silence draped across the kitchen table. I could tell Near sensed there was some history here. His eyes scrutinized the bookstore owner.

            “Christ,” Bernard muttered after a moment with a squirm. “Don’t you have your own ghoulish backstory to unearth?” He took a long draught of tea and made a face.

            “Sorry,” Near apologized, without really apologizing at all. He lifted his tea, swirling it around in its glass.

            “Ryuuzaki, get me a drink. A real one,” Bernard demanded.

_‘Eleven A-M?’_ I questioned.

            “I don’t care, just get me a drink.”

_‘We have a guest.’_

            “Get him a drink too, then.”

            I inhaled deeply and turned to Near. _‘Would you like wine?’_

            “Tea is fine, thanks,” the younger man said. I wondered how much he saw. The alcoholic shopkeeper, defending what little dignity he had the only way he knew how. And me. What could he possibly think of me?

            I took Bernard’s mug, depositing it on the counter and moving to the cabinet. _‘White?’_ I signed.

            “Red,” Bernard grumbled, without even looking at my hands. I saw Near smirk into his tea. I shuffled the bottles around and fished out a dusty pinot noir.

            “So instead of furthering your career, you’ve locked yourself away in a bookshop,” Near stated as I poured the dark liquid into a glass. Bernard would drink straight from the bottle if I let him. I stepped back over to the table and he snatched the glass from me greedily.

            I nodded. _Yes._

            “Right.” He set his glass down and stood, pushing his chair back from the table. “Can I speak with you for a few minutes? Privately.” He nodded toward Bernard, who was well into his wine by now. The bookseller waved an idle hand in my direction. I nodded again, gesturing toward the shop proper. I followed Near back into the shop, and he cornered me in the small alcove by the sofa.

            “You do realize,” he said in hushed tones, “that I have to tell the others.”

_‘You can’t.’_

             “I have to. You’ve been gone far too long.”

_‘So?’_

            “They have a right to know. You were the cornerstone of our lives, L.”

_‘I am not L.’_

            “Of course you are L.”

_‘No. You are L now.’_

            “No! Listen to me. That title? It belongs to you. I didn’t just become you, all right? No one could become you.”

_‘You are my heir.’_

            That shut him up, at least for a second. He sighed, and his eyes swept across the dingy old shop; across the cobwebs that hung like a widow’s veil along the top shelves. “You don’t belong here,” he whispered.

_‘Where do I belong?’_ I knew my face betrayed my frustration, but I didn’t particularly care.

            “With me. At the home,” he said. I frowned. The second half of that statement followed the first far too quickly.

_‘I have no home.’_

            “Of course you do,” he hissed. His eyebrows twitched inward, the way they sometimes did when he wasn’t getting his way. I softened. The simple tic brought a deluge of memories with it.

            I shook my head. _No._

            Near sighed. He sat on the sofa, hooking his two forefingers together. I hovered beside him, watching him think. “Okay,” he finally said. “Will you still be here if I visit again tomorrow?”

_‘Will you tell W-A-T-A-R-I?’_

             Near gave a sad little shake of his head. “No. I won’t tell anyone.” He fiddled with his hands, looking up at the shelf. Brave New World stared dispassionately back down at him. A nasty thought occurred to me.

_‘Is W-A-T-A-R-I still there?’_ I signed. Near wasn’t watching. With some trepidation, I tapped the back of his right hand. He looked back at me. I asked the question again.

             He scratched the back of his neck. “Oh, L,” he mumbled before looking me in the eye. “Watari died three months ago.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this was going to be a comedy; I was incorrect

**Author's Note:**

> This story came about as a crazy shower idea. L ends up surviving the Kira case, but not before having been beaten into submission by Kira himself. He ends up having his throat cut - but survives, at the cost of his larynx. Bernard Black, a reluctant genius, takes in the former detective to lead a quiet life at his bookshop in England. 
> 
> There are a lot of unanswered questions here (How did L get his throat cut? What makes this story feasible? Isn't Black Books a comedy? Where is Manny, anyway?) so I understand if you are more than a bit confused. I hope that my writing is clear, and I intend to give more explanation as the story continues. 
> 
> Feedback is much appreciated!
> 
> "No Prehensilizing"
> 
> -B


End file.
